Six thousand years has liv'd the Goddess,
Your Heroine hardly fifty odd is.
Befides, you songsters oft have shown
That she hath Graces of her own:
Three Graces by Lucina brought her,
Juft three, and ev'ry Grace a daughter.
Here many a king his heart and crown
Shall at their snowy feet lay down;
In royal robes, they come by dozens
To court their English-German coufins:
Befides a pair of princely babies,

That, five years hence, will both be Hebes.
Now fee her feated in her throne
With genuine luftre, all her own:
Poor Cynthia never fhone fo bright,
Her fplendor is but borrow'd light;
And only with her Brother linkt
Can fhine, without him is extinct.
But Carolina fhines the clearer

With neither spouse nor brother near her;
And darts her beams o'er both our isles,
Tho' Gage is gone a thousand miles.
Thus Berecynthia takes her place,
Attended by her heav'nly race;

And fees a fon in ev'ry God,

Unaw'd by Jove's all-shaking nod.

Now fing his little Highness **** * Freddy Who ftruts like any king already:

With so much beauty, fhew me any maid
That could refift this charming Ganymede?
Where majefty with sweetness vies,
And, like his father, early wife.
Then cut him out a world of work,
To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk :
Foretel his empire crown'd with bays,
And golden times, and halcyon days;
And fwear his line shall rule the nation
For ever
'till the conflagration.

But, now it comes into my mind,
We left a little Duke behind;

A Cupid in his face and fize,

And only wants to want his eyes.
Make fome provifion for the younker,
Find him a kingdom out to conquer:
Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er,..
Make Gulliver his commodore;
Into whofe pocket valiant Willy put,
Will foon fubdue the realm of Lilliput.

A skilful critic juftly blames

[names.

Hard, tough, crank, gutt'ral, harsh, stiff
The sense can ne'er be too jejune,
But fmooth your words to fit the tune.
Hanover may do well enough,

But George and Brunfwic are too rough:
Heffe Darmstadt makes a rugged found,
And Guelp the ftrongeft ear will wound.

In vain are all attempts from Germany
To find out proper words for harmony:
And yet I must except the Rhine,
Because it clinks to Caroline.

Hail! Queen of Britain, Queen of rhymes!
Be fung ten hundred thousand times!
Too happy were the poets crew,
If their own happiness they knew:
Three fyllables did never meet
So foft, fo fliding, and fo fweet:
Nine other tuneful words like that
Would prove ev'n Homer's numbers flat.
Behold three beauteous vowels ftand,
With bridegroom liquids, hand in hand;
In concord here for ever fix'd,
No jarring confonant betwixt.
May Carlie continue long,

in fong.

For ever fair and young!
What tho' the royal carcase must,
Squeez'd in a coffin, turn to dust ?
Thofe elements her name compofe,
Like atoms, are exempt from blows.
Tho' Condine may fill your gaps,
Yet ftill you muft confult your maps;
Find rivers with harmonious names,
Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames.
Britannia long will wear like fteel,
But Albion's Cliffs are out at heel;

And

And patience can endure no more
To hear the Belgic Lion roar.

Give up the phrafe of Haughty Gaul,
But proud Iberia foundly maul:
Reftore the fhips by Philip taken,

And make him crouch to fave his bacon.
Naffau, who
got the name of Glorious
Because he never was victorious,
A hanger-on has always been;
For old acquaintance bring him in.
To Walpole you might lend a line,
But much I fear he's in decline;
And, if you chance to come too late,
When he goes out, you share his fate,
And bear the new fucceffor's frown;
Or, whom you once fang up, fing down.
Reject with fcorn that stupid notion,
To praise your hero for devotion;
Nor entertain a thought fo odd,
That princes fhould believe in God ;
But follow the fecureft rule,
And turn it all to ridicule:

'Tis grown the choiceft wit at Court,
And gives the maids of honour sport.
For, fince they talkt with Doctor Clarke,
They now can venture in the dark:
That found Divine the truth hath spoke all,
And pawn'd his word, Hell is not local.

This

This will not give them half the trouble
Of bargains fold, or meanings double.
Suppofing now your fong is done,
To Mynheer Handel next you run,
Who artfully will pare and prune
Your words to fome Italian tune:
Then print it in the largest letter,
With capitals, the more the better.
Prefent it boldly on your knee,
And take a Guinea for your fee.